“Greetings Mister Father! At last we meet again. It appears reports of both our deaths were greatly exaggerated!”
The guy spouting the clichés was my adopted son Kang, aka Batukhang Chuluun, aka Oswald J. Carver IV, whom I thought had died in a car explosion some time ago. Not that I had anything to do with it. You know. One just hears things.
“That does appear to be the case,” I replied, nonchalantly sliding my right hand down to the Blackberry in my pants pocket. “So. How have you been?”
I suppose a spot of explanation might be in order for newer readers. You see, Kang’s a native Mongolian who came to this country seven years ago to serve as my houseboy. Following a series of workplace disputes, a judge ordered me to adopt the lad as my legal heir, after which I made some regrettable business decisions and was sent to prison for four months. Kang managed to usurp my financial empire while I was away, so I faked my own death upon release and went into hiding for the better part of a year. Shortly before I resurfaced, Kang had his unfortunate accident, and I hadn’t seen him since.
But as this encounter proves, nothing good lasts forever. It had been a long day at work, and I was headed toward my Escalade in Carver Consolidated Capital’s (C3’s) parking garage when I was confronted by my prodigal son and a half-dozen chain-wielding Asian fellows in rather garish motorcycle jackets.
To his credit, at least Kang wore a tailored suit. He smiled behind his Ray-Bans and lifted his left hand — or rather his prosthetic hook, the hand itself having been lost in a horrifying garbage-disposal mishap years earlier. “No time for pleasantries, Mister Father. You know why I’m here.”
“I’m sure I don’t,” I said as I pressed a button on my phone. “But I must congratulate you on your English. It’s improved tremendously since last we spoke. I’m proud of you, son.”
It was hard to tell with the shades, but I think I saw him blush. “You — yes. Thank you for noticing. I have worked hard to improve that aspect of my character. But that’s not why I’m here.”
“Oh? Why then?”
“Isn’t it obvious?” he said, motioning his goons forward. “I’ve come for vengeance, Mister Father! Sweet, sweet vengeance!”
In the distance, I heard a faint but growing metallic buzzing sound, and it was my turn to smile. “Fair enough,” I said, raising my hands in surrender. “Though I do have one question.”
Kang laughed while his henchmen lassoed their chains above their heads in a menacing manner. “Oh?” he said. “And what might that be?”
The buzzing sound grew ever louder. “Just this, you little shit — how did you plan on leaving this garage alive?”
Right on cue, C3’s newly purchased fleet of high-powered security drones swarmed in, locking onto Kang and the others with laser-guided targeting systems before unleashing hell. The ensuing battle was like something out of a Michael Bay flick: thousands of spent rounds, exploding vehicles, structural damage to the building, the inexplicable but appreciated appearance of several large-breasted women in bikinis, seizure-inducing fast cuts, etc. Yet when the smoke cleared, only six bodies surrounded me — Kang was nowhere to be found.
As a result, I can only assume he’s out there somewhere, plotting his next move even as I type. Not that I’m going to sweat it. After all, he may have learned everything he knows from me, but I sure as Nixon didn’t teach him everything I know. Peace out.
Front page image source: Pixabay